


This Wicked City

by InkSplatterM



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Jazz Pianist!Yuuri, M/M, Mobster AU, More characters to come, Prohibition Era Chicago, Young!Mila, bootlegger!Viktor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 21:10:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9516404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSplatterM/pseuds/InkSplatterM
Summary: Here's the thing, Chicago has a reputation. All over the world it is known as the wickedest city in the west. It's a name she bears with pride as blood runs down her streets and into her river.Viktor Nikiforov is the best bootlegger in Chicago, walking a fine line between being valuable to the city's gangs and being killed by them. Yuuri Katsuki is a student at the University of Chicago, moonlighting as a jazz pianist, and is Viktor's mechanic. Together, they navigate the perils and beauties of Chicago, waiting to see if the city will swallow them whole.Here's the thing, You do what you can to survive. So long as there is blood in your veins and a laugh on your lips, Chicago will accept you even when hell would spit you out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Potential trigger warning for Yuri P. talking about a gang rape that he was forced to participate in in vague terms. No violence or death in chapter one, but future chapters will have violence.

The Chicago River made natural boundary lines in the city. Each section was its own little kingdom, with the principalities of each gangster fighting for prominence or survival. It was a wicked city, brimming with life, with death, and with every sin between.

The badlands on the south side belonged to Capone. Sure, there were other gangs that thrived on the south side, but they were all allied with Capone or taken out in short order. Where other cities would have ethnic rivalries – Irish vs. German, Polish vs. Italian – here, they were replaced with racial tension. Whites who fought tooth and nail for “their” portion of Bridgeport turned around and saw the African-Americans from deeper south coming up to “their” turf. Riots and murder were the order of the day; the bloody, bare-knuckled, belly that powered patronage politics. If a politician wasn’t in Capone’s pocket, he was in the pocket of his local Athletics Club. Some probably managed to be in two pockets at once. Corruption was a winner-take-all game, and the only prize was survival.

The west side was a wilderness given over to the Valley Gang, the Terrible Genna Brothers, and the Saltis and McErlane Gang. The gangs were more insular, more ethnic based, than others, and most fell to the power of Capone’s Outfit. The Twentieth Ward dominated the atmosphere. It had rebuilt completely after the fire of 1871, but the replacement buildings were tenements controlled by slumlords. Maxwell Street was the death soaked keystone. Even the police were afraid to venture down into the slums. Those who weren’t afraid were bribed into looking away at another death, another broken law.

To the north was the jungle populated with the Circus Gang and Bugs Moran’s North Side Gang. It was a place where the homes of the rich and famous were barely a block east of from slums like “Little Hell”. Blood still watered the streets, though perhaps with less frequency than in the west side or the south side. The North also held the final bastion against Capone’s complete control over the city’s gangs. They were the last Irish holdouts against the tide of Capone’s Italians.

To the east was Lake Michigan. Viktor loved the lake. It was big; bigger than the city in every way. It was like the ocean, extending out to the horizon line. It’s blue green color was the opposite of the grey and red that was Chicago. He’d never swam in it, but Viktor knew that it was deeper than the city’s tallest buildings. You could lose yourself in the water, make yourself company with the sunken ship and their dead, and never come back up for air. The sound of every wave crashing on the rocks and the cry of seagulls created the second sweetest music he ever heard all his life.

However, it wasn’t music that he wanted to be listening to this long.

“Crispino,” Viktor said, turning as he heard a car door slam closed. “I was about to leave and find a phone. Moran and his fellows would never have kept me waiting this long. They wanted this shipment, too, you know.”

“Like hell you would.” Michele Crispino took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

Viktor smiled. “What makes you think I wouldn’t have?”

He had a very nice smile, all things considered, like what you’d find on the Arrow Collar Man. It was just as painted on Viktor’s face. His hair didn’t match, though. The Arrow Collar Man had hair that was completely slicked back, where Viktor had bangs that flopped over one eye disarmingly.

Viktor opened up a compartment in his car. There were bullet holes along the side of it, but Viktor, and his cargo, were unharmed. In the compartment were three boxes of alcohol, every bottle carefully wrapped in paper.

Michele didn’t like how Viktor’s smile widened as each bottle was checked over. Every drop of good Canadian alcohol was accounted for. It was frustrating, but Viktor Nikiforov was a man of his word. It was also a relief. Michele wouldn’t have to kill Nikiforov today.

An envelope changed hands after Michele moved the boxes. “You need to be careful with those threats. Mr. Capone won’t think they’re jokes much longer.”

Viktor slid a cigarette out of a plain case and light it with a match. “Neither will Moran. But they’re both too smart to be intimidated by jokes, of course.”

“Of course.”

~~~~

Yuri watched carefully from half a block away as Mila picked the car door lock. It was just enough out of the way that it wouldn’t seem like they were together. Besides, Mila was little enough that most walking by would just assume that Mila was a kid fascinated with the car. Almost there… almost...

“Getting faster at that.”

“Fuck! Viktor!” Yuri did not jump, thank you. He turned his head to where Viktor was leaning on Yuri’s post. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“That’s my car you’re trying to steal. So I think I have free reign in sneaking up on you. This is the third time in two weeks, I might add.”

“Shut up.” Yuri snarled and shifted in place. “Mila!” The kid turned at the call. Stray locks of bright red hair came out from under Mila’s grey cap. “We’re caught, get over here.”

Viktor blinked as Mila came closer and stood before them, arms crossed.

Oh.

Mila was a girl dressed in trousers. He looked her over. Tall for her age, and given the 42 Gang’s activities... “You’ve got fast fingers. Too bad that Yuri here always wants to steal my car when I’m in the neighborhood.”

Yuri interrupted before she could respond, his accent going to a deeper west side tone than usual. “Mila. If anything happens to me, you go to this guy, okay? Him and his roommate will take care of you. His name is Viktor, and the roommate is Katsuki. Now head back home. We’re done for the day.”

There was only the barest hint of hesitance before Mila ran off.

“She a good kid?”

“Yeah.”

“When did you recruit her?”

“Three weeks ago.”

Viktor slid out his cigarette case. He pulled one out for himself and one for Yuri, lighting both of them. “I take it that was also the last time you did a gang shag.”

Yuri coughed on the smoke. His gaze was firmly on the ground. He couldn’t even look at Viktor’s shoes. The silence stifled the air between them. Yuri was a member of a North West side gang, the “42” Gang. To a man, they were all younger than twenty, and started recruiting as young as six years old. Yuri’s personal history read the same. He was fifteen years old now, and was one of the gang’s youngest original members.

The gang was violent, bold because they all knew there was little to nothing that the honorable gents of the CPD could do to punish them. Their physical violence extended to sexual violence. But the only rape charges that ever stuck were if the girl was younger than fifteen.

“I didn’t want to…” Yuri’s voice was soft with guilt and horror. His blonde hair looked white in the fading shine that bounced off the windows. It was like the hair of a bloody-winged angel. “I didn’t want to do it. God, she was my age. Younger, maybe. They said I had to and…” He looked up at Viktor’s blank face. “I didn’t want to do it!”

“I believe you. I believe you.” Viktor did, surprisingly enough. Despite being an angry kid amongst a full set of angry kids, Yuri still had something like a heart under the bluster. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be keeping this girl under his wing to keep her safe. There was a certain logic to it. If she was one of them, they wouldn’t turn on her. If she was useful to the gang, she wouldn’t get hurt. Not like that.

He blew out a puff of smoke. The sun was now just about gone. “Don’t try to steal my car again, tonight. I need it to take Yuuri home.”

“The value’s down because of the bullet holes, anyway. I’ll take it after your roommate kills you for picking him up in a damaged car.”

~~~~

There was a certain purity to the smoke filled speakeasy. Everyone there was to be merry, get drunk, and have fun. If some of the faces were more notorious than others, who was to really call them out? Every guest was a criminal here.

The band played a brassy jazz tune, the melody caressed by a piano. Viktor sipped deeply from his glass of cold gin. Good stuff. He had brought it into this little speakeasy specifically, so it ought to be good. His fingers absently traced the bottom of the glass, while his eyes were focused solely on the piano player.

This. This was the music he could die listening to, only to be brought back from the dead by it again.

Sitting on the piano bench was a rare sight in Chicago, a Japanese man, with his sleeves rolled up and his hair slicked back under the dim, off-yellow lights. Yuuri Katsuki was transcendent, sublime. Viktor, as always, could not take his gaze away from him. Yuuri swung with the beat, adding a syncopated arpeggio in harmony to the trumpet behind him, finishing with a flourish. Viktor clapped with the rest of the bar, holding up his half-full glass in a toast when Yuuri’s eyes met his.

Late in the evening, Yuuri finally finished his gig and met Viktor at the bar. Viktor was still nursing the same drink, condensation making a thin sheen of sweat on the outside of the glass.

“Ready?” Viktor said, voice thick after he swallowed down the last of his gin.

“Ready. I have class tomorrow, so no funny business.” Yuuri rolled down his sleeves again, and put on his glasses. That he was utterly unaware of how devastatingly handsome he looked made Viktor smile as they left together. His hands were very carefully in his pockets.

When they reached his car, Viktor got in instantly, but Yuuri didn’t. He was touching one of the bullet holes that littered the side. “Viktor… What the hell did you do to my car?”

“I thought it was my car.” Viktor said, reaching over to the passenger side door and shoving it open.

“Not when you get it shot, it isn’t.”

Viktor looked at Yuuri. Ah, that was not a happy face at all. But Yuuri knew what Viktor did for a living. He knew the risks that Viktor ran, playing every gang against each other for his services. It didn’t mean that he liked it.

“Didn’t I just say that I had class tomorrow?” Yuuri continued. He slid in the open door and slammed it shut after him. “I can’t fix this tonight.”

“I don’t need you to.” Viktor turned the key and pulled the car away from its parking spot. The moment he only needed one hand to drive, he gripped Yuuri’s where it lay on the beach seat between them. Their joined hands were carefully out of sight from anyone outside the car.  “We’re just going to go home and go to bed. Sleeping in the passenger seat without you was such a trial.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.” But Yuuri was grinning, despite his continued glare over the state of the car.

“Like what? That this car has the worst seats between here and Toronto?”

“Yeah, I put in these seats. Don’t insult my handiwork, Nikiforov.”

“I’ll appreciate your handiwork once it has a soft touch. Treat my car like your piano for once.”

Yuuri pulled his hand away to give Viktor a half-hearted punch to the shoulder.


End file.
